


Lead Me Home

by writeshite



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Deviates From Canon, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:52:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeshite/pseuds/writeshite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was years ago now. Long before the world turned to shit, long before Ed and Sophia. Before any of it. He was small and bright eyed and all wrapped in blankets and she didn't want to let him go. But she was young, and of course, she had to. And now? The world has gone to hell, and Jackson Weaver is still looking for his birth mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

2nd August 1989. Everything is cool and crisp and white. The pure sunlight gleaming through huge windows; soft sheets and shining metal. The hospital is a quiet buzz with background activity: nurses drifting from room to room, the hushed noises of mothers lulling children to sleep, the absent cries of newborns. It's been a few hours. Just lying there, propped up in the bed by her mound of pillows, long auburn curls roughly pulled back into a mess of a bun behind her head. Her cheeks still faintly flushed from clenching teeth and restrained screams and gripping the sides of the bed till she thought her fingers might bleed. But still the easiest of smiles sweeps across her lips now as she looks down at the bundle in her arms. Worth it, she thinks. A delicate finger gently brushes back and forth in a soothing motion over his sweet, smooth cheeks, red and fat and glowing. His tiny fists clenched and held close to him, chubby arms constantly shifting the blanket they'd carefully wrapped him in. Carol rearranged it once again, laughing softly to herself as she did.  
For some reason it's a compulsion, with babies, to carefully trace their tiny palms with gentle fingertips, till their fragile little fingers coil tightly around your own. He holds on tight. As if he never wants to let go. She swallows hard. The smile that graced her lips starting to pinch at the corners. But she doesn't take her finger out of his grip. He's barely a few hours old, and he won't spend more than a week with her. Perhaps not even that.  
These few days are a rift in time; an exception to the rule. All the world can move on around them, without them, as it wishes, and they will remain in their perfect, pure, simple happiness. For as long as they're able. His small, crumpled face scrunches and unscrunches, a gurgle revealing toothless gums (She won't see him teething. Won't see him lose his first tooth), and his eyes peel open again; strong, vivid blues gazing up at her, strong, small fingers still clinging on. And she smiles sadly back at him.  
And she's right of course; it's not even a week before they come. Nice clothes and combed hair, her arm looped through the handle of a baby carrier and a well-meaning smile on his face. She stands in the doorway of her parents house, smiling calmly. Small cries coming from his crib upstairs in her old room. It all looks wrong. It all looks like she's far younger than she is; the old band posters on her bedroom wall, the nick-nacks dotted on her shelves and desk, old photos from her teenage years. They know she's twenty, but still she feels like saying it again. 

_Annie and Mike Weaver_. They know each-other well, the three of them. They've read each-other's files, spoken on the phone. Met twice. Three months ago, and today. They're from out of state. They're not narrow minded, not indifferent. They really do seem _nice_. They even ask her how _she's_ doing. Her heart has been melted down and reset and twisted into something all angles and points. But she says she's doing _just fine_. She holds him one last time; lifting him out of the crib, arms waving, gurgled cries in his throat, watching her with those same beautiful blues. She hopes they stay like that forever. She takes a moment to memorise his face...No. She doesn't. She doesn't for the same reason she never gave him a name; because it will give her something to remember, and if she remembers it will hurt more. No. He will remain nameless, faceless, as if a vague character in a hazy dream that she will wake up from the moment she closes the door behind the all too pleasant Weaver's.  
She places him carefully down in the baby carrier, and he stops crying.  
The giddy new parents thank her graciously all the way to the door. Half-heard assurances that they will look after him, that they will take the _best_ care of him. She smiles and nods and manages vague, meaningless responses; 'i know you will', 'i'm sure you'll be great parents', 'see you round'. The last one just slips out. And there's a brief silence before the woman, Annie, laughs once (an awkward burst) and says something about how his grandparents might want to say goodbye. _See you round_. She won't. That was agreed. She was giving him away with both hands, it seemed only right that it stay that way. No contact number. No forwarding address. All they had was the birth certificate from the hospital he was born in. Nothing more. And by the time he's old enough to look for her she might not even be Carol Marshal anymore. Her mother stands in the living room; tight lipped and arms folded across her chest as she forces a cooed goodbye at her grandson. Her father leans forward from his position on the couch to peer into the hall, nodding once and his farewell almost a bark. They all know this is for the best. That she couldn't look after him. That he deserved better than what she could give him.  
The Weaver's seem to sense the tension and give Carol one more smile and nod, more earnestly this time, thanking her from their _souls_. She opens the door for them, she has no desire for idle chatter that only prolongs the inevitable. Maybe they'll think her uncaring, selfish, a poor mother if she were allowed to be one. Maybe that's for the best. They can tell him that and maybe then he won't come looking for her. But she can't pretend she wouldn't want him to anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Careless darkness. Not the kind that engulfs a landscape without mercy or relent, but a darkness that selfishly swallows all that surrounds her. Careless; as if it could split open at any moment and cast a light down on some grizzly piece of rotting flesh. She listens out for the shuffling footsteps of the dead through the undergrowth, grazing the asphalt, snapping branches underfoot; but silence. Almost perfect, with only the sound of crickets humming through the air.  
The car catches in the feathery moonlight. Encrusted with dirt and God knows what else. But it has an engine, and gas, and it runs, so it'll do. She checks it over once more; tires, windows, locks, gas. There's nothing to stop her now. She casts one glance back to the church, faintly hoping. But she's done her job too well. She's slipped out perfectly unnoticed.

 _Survivors_ he'd called them. Survivors. But at what cost? What had they lost in order to survive? What had they gained? She's far from the woman she was. Far from the blinkered, fearful woman she used to be. _Survivors_. Sure, he talked about how they'd lived. But what about who had died? All the people they'd lost. All the people they'd killed. She could see it in the eyes of those she'd lost for so long. Those who she hadn't seen since the prison. Their eyes were softer in her memory. The eyes of the dead were softer still. But the eyes of the living...Cooler. Sharper. A ruthlessness they all had the capacity to wield. But their emotions often got the better of them. She wasn't like that. Not anymore. Not really. If any one of them turned in there she'd do what needed to be done, regardless. She had before. She would again. Without a second thought.  
They all would.  
They'd changed. They all had. For better or worse. They all knew the reality of this world, understood it, accepted it. They'd survived, and they would continue to do so. They didn't need her as a voice of reason, as a den mother, as a protector. They didn't need her at all.  
And that was ok...It would have to be.  
Somewhere in the back of her mind as she turned away from the dim glow of the church she knew there would be days when she would long for them. When she would miss Daryl's smirk, or Judith's laugh, or Tyresse's forgiveness. Lord knows she'd need that someday. Rick's reason, Glenn's calm, all of them. From the original Atlanta group to those they picked up along the way. There would be days when she would miss them with all her heart. But she knew that. And she accepted it.

Hand on the dusted door handle of the car she forced herself to take a steadying breath. A clunk as it opened, a casual creak as she dropped down into the drivers seat. The engine ran well. She listened to its easy hum for a moment as she guessed how far it would take her. The road ahead was bathed in pitch, thin slivers of moonlight gnawing at rustling leaves in the trees above... And she goes.  
She doesn't see the archer clambering through the woodland.  
Nor the car marked with a white cross.  
She just drives. Gripping the steering wheel too tight and telling herself she's doing the right thing.


	3. Chapter 3

"Annie, stop fussing"  
"I'm not _fussing_ "  
"You are! you've straightened my tie and brushed down your dress more times than i can count! Just - _breathe_ "  
" _...Breathing_ " she responds sincerely, quietly, mostly to herself. Brushing her hands carefully down her dress once more, just for good measure. Side-eyeing her, Mike heaves a sigh, though his own hands sit restlessly in his trouser pockets, his foot beginning to tap on the stone step. An unfortunate trait that never really succeeded in conveying his nervousness, rather just served to make him look impatient at inappropriate moments. Annie's voice practically sung, "Mi-ike, you're doing it again" oh so lovely, she never managed to sound critical or off-hand or insulting. She could be calling you every name under the sun and all you'd do is say thank you.  
"Maybe they'll think I'm a tap dancer" He smiles down at his wife, giving a little hop and a rhythmic tap of his feet, his round, low laugh coming easily in spite of his anxiety.  
"Or maybe they'll just think you’re odd" His wife gives him a look, but one they both know she can't hold forever, and no sooner has she made it than her smile splits wide across her features and she hides her face from her husband. 

"It'll be fine" Mike says softly, lacing his fingers through hers with a smile. His foot has stopped tapping. Though they hold each-others hands too tightly.  
1 A woman with fine, red hair opens the door, her head bobbing uncontrollably in what she seems to think are pleasant nods. Mike nods back at her, and keeps nodding, and Annie has to keep herself from laughing, elbowing him in the side once her back is turned and shooting him the same look that won't hold fast. But they quickly settle themselves, sobering at the thought of what these people are doing for them. The woman with the nodding-dog head leads them through the house that is nicer than they imagined to the living room, sitting them down on the couch and promptly offering tea, coffee and such. The couple politely decline, they feel almost guilty for not wanting to be there long. It's only as the woman with the red hair sits down that they notice the man in the room; sat on the other couch beside her reading the paper. It only flops down when prompted by his wife, Margot, introducing him as John. Glasses on the end of his nose, bags just beginning to build under his eyes. Dark, thinning hair. "I'm sure you'll love him" he says with a toothy smile, "Might finally be able to get some sleep". He chuckles to himself as he puts his paper back up, his wife joining in on the joke for appearances and the couple across from them are forced to indulge in the ignorance of it. Despite his smile his tone was far from joking.  
"You don't like babies then, huh?" Mike smiled with the same humour John had. And with all the bite.  
"Sure I do. Carol was one once." His smile had already started to waste and Mike thought better than to toy with him further. Just from the sound of his voice you could tell he wasn't exactly the father who changed diapers.

"So you live out of state?" Margot proudly tore through the tension in the air, barely giving her husband a glance.  
"Yeah. Madison, Florida. Y'know it?" Annie chimed in, smiling brightly. The room was all smiles.  
"Can't say we do" Margot shook her head as Mike drew a deep breath. They knew they were from out of state. And they knew they were from Florida. It was all there in their file. They knew.  
A dreadful silence fell over the room, John peeling through his paper, Annie brushing down her dress, Mike’s foot beginning to tap on the rug.

It's barely a few moments but it feels like an hour. Suddenly, Margot springs up from her seat, even John shifts his beloved paper in surprise. "Carol!" she announces, "I'll just go and get her!" and with her vigorous nodding and keen smile she leaves them alone with John.

As if on cue, Mike and Annie side eye each-other. No one makes a move to talk to one another. John resumes his paper as if the two of them had simply evaporated into the air, never to be acknowledged again. Annie beats back the unfortunate thought that the baby is better off not being around that man. Her features flicker briefly as she blinks down at her hands, there’s barely a moment before Mike’s are there too; fingers lacing with hers and smiling easily back at her. _It’s fine, it’s all fine_. There’s a quiet feeling of a punchline; an unspoken tease that warms the air around them and spreads smiles over their lips like a knife through butter. Soft. Easy. And then there’s a gruff cough and a rustle of paper and John’s social-shield sits folded in his lap as elbows rest on knees, “Look,” he leans forward and speaks with the full knowledge that his family may return at any moment. “I don’t really care for the ins and outs of all this business. I just know you’re doing us a solid here, y’know? Margot won’t say it but she’s grateful too. She’s just…She’s still our little girl, y’know? Well, I suppose you don’t…Not havin’ kids ‘n all” he says it as if it were some benign article in his paper, but Mike’s jaw tenses and Annie’s fingers grip tighter to his. Oh, but he’s not done yet, “It ain’t the same anyway. When they’re your own.” Mike is breathing, just like Annie would want him to ,biting down on the inside of his cheek. They’ve heard this before. They’ve heard it a thousand times. And they put up with it. But they’re _tired_ of ‘putting up with it’. He restrains himself, tries not to make an unfortunate scene that will only upset his wife. But her fingers break away from his as if John’s words shatter them on impact, snapping up to a point as she hisses at the older man across the room. “How dare you. _Doing you a ‘solid’?_ This isn’t a favour, it’s a child, it’s a _life_. And we will love that little boy and take care of him just as much as you love and take care of your little girl, and just as much as _our_ little girl. Who is back home with her grandparents who love her as if she was ours, because she _is_ ours. And she will love this boy as if he were her brother because that is exactly what he will be. And they will grow up calling us mom and dad because _that is what we are_. Don’t you dare tell me or anyone ever again that they are lesser parents because they didn’t give birth to their children.”

There’s a pause that strains the air as her hand comes back to hold her husbands, though her face refuses to settle; bile crawling beneath her skin and eyes never once unhooking from John’s flesh. He doesn’t move. Just stares at the two of them, silent. Mike makes no effort to appease the other man, in fact, he does nothing at all. Just glances at Annie as she settles herself again with a small hint of a smile. A proud smirk. And somehow her little raging slip adds to her beauty. The angry little lady returns to her corner and Annie’s softness comes back to her. Anger was never something she was comfortable with, but she was far less comfortable with people questioning her status as a mother. John’s eyes shift and lips press flat as nostrils flare, but he says nothing, does nothing. Just draws a breath and returns to his paper. No apology.

The silence is eased by the hammer of footsteps down the stairs. Margot glides into the room, she seems less nervous now, as if whatever façade she’d put up for this meeting had melted into her shoes. Her head has stopped bobbing. She holds her hands in front of her, eyes soft and, yes, grateful. The girl appears then, red hair like her mother’s tossed back in a mess, a little stained towel slung over one shoulder, babe in arms. She’s tired. She certainly looks the part, but the bundle looks strange in her arms. Foreign. As if it doesn’t quite belong there. Her eyes say otherwise. But all the same as she tucks the powder white blanket around his tiny form and smiles at his gurgles she looks as though she may as well be holding a bag of groceries. And then that feeling, that small guilt the Weavers had been harboring, about depriving a young mother of her precious baby, melted. She _didn’t_ know what she was doing, and none of them could escape that. But she was trying; a bottle tucked under her arm and innumerable sleepless nights around her eyes. “Hi” is all she musters.

“Hi, Carol” Mike and Annie are up on their feet before they know it, they hardly know who speaks first.  
“You—You look, different, from the last time we saw you” Mike chuckles kindly.  
“Definitely less pregnant” the young girl manages a smile for them as the baby stirs in her arms. Quite calmly she starts to rock him, but they all know what’s coming. They know better than to ask her if she’s ok, if she’s feeling well, they know better than that. Instead they opt for a simple (and honest) “It’s good to see you.”  
“Yeah, it’s…It’s nice to see you too.”

Memories flash back to the three of them on a blooming afternoon; blossoms edging their way onto the ends of branches, dewy lawns and flat skies. A charming little café with half a dozen empty patio chairs outside and people chattering away with their coffees in the shelter of the indoors. Coats folded over backs of seats and hands curled round warm mugs, awkward silences and questions about college that had obvious, unspoken answers in the rounded belly that her blouse did not hide well. Agreements and details and promises to call. And here they stand in her living room, her uncertain parents facilitating the silence that fell between them. Falling so hard and so fast it shattered like glass on the floor, spreading out in little shards that clipped them all and made them wince inside. It wasn’t glass. But when he started to cry it felt as sharp and as fragile.  
“He’s just a little ratty.” Carol urges, lifting him up to hold him better. It crosses everyone’s mind that she’d get the hang of it, if she only had the time. Or the chance. It’s an awkward performance as she determinedly shuffles the bottle out from under her arm, but he isn’t hungry, and she doesn’t know what else it could be. Margot fusses about changing him while Carol protests she did it five minutes ago and the rest of them just stand, useless, unable (or unwilling) to help.  
“You’re gonna get used to this” the older woman chuckles, stroking his plump little cheek. She seems at ease now. Nice. Carol looks like her.  
“We have a daughter already” Mike says, unable to resist glancing at John.  
“Yeah, she’s four.” Carol adds, shifting the boy in her arms again as if another position might calm him.  
The crying rings throughout the house and John’s attention is slowly being torn away from his precious paper. There’s no malice in his moves; anyone could tell he isn’t a violent man. Impatient, ignorant, perhaps. But the room bubbles with discomfort as it is, and whatever hapless solution he will probably seek will only make it worse. And Mike is there, taking one large step from his wife’s side, standing a little away from Carol, with the most ridiculous expression on his face. Lips all contorted and eyes crossed, he can barely see the boy but he hears him, hears his wails quickly lose their edge and round into bubbles of laughter. Carol looks at this man, with his mad face, at his wife with her warm smile. At her son, at them making him smile when she couldn’t. That’s when she knew. Knew she wasn’t quite holding him right (yet), knew she couldn’t take care of him (yet), knew they would (always). Maybe in a few years, in a few more, she’d be better, she’d be able. She’d have a husband and a house and a life and the money and circumstance you needed to raise a child. But right now she didn’t.  
“You wanna hold him?”

The one small bag of things they bought for him sits idly by the door, just waiting to be shifted onto someone’s shoulder and swing away into the distance. An elephant in the room. As Mike takes the bundle being handed to him he can feel something break. Something in the air loses its shine; it’s too soon. They all know she can’t ask to have him back again. Mike arranges him in his arms, elbow under his head as he catches sight of Carol slipping the stained cloth from her shoulder. This was it. However unceremonious, this was it: The dreaded handover. The inevitable parting of ways. And once he’s in his arms it’s done. Almost. It wasn’t really done until they’d left. Until all three of them were gone from her life, never to return. And the moment her fingertips leave his little body, no one is immune to the shift. “He likes you.” Her mother says. John resumes his paper. Carol looks away from them all.  
“You brought a bag.” It’s a statement that falls flat. No one can think of a response. Well, no one but Annie and her unfaltering goodness.  
“Yeah. Just some things for the car. Food, diapers, a blanket or two.” They all seem to adopt the same vague nodding as all eyes divert to the bag. “I’ve got some stuff upstairs, if you want it? Just some clothes an’ stuff. Diapers if you want ‘em?” She offers, already moving back up the stairs in a haste, “It’s not like I’m gonna be needing them anymore.” The young woman manages a chuckle, but it’s more like a sigh forced through a smile. And before anyone can respond she’s already disappeared.

When she returns with the half-empty box of diapers and small heap of roughly folded baby clothes, Annie is rocking the boy in her arms while vaguely tuning in to Margot’s ramble about baby food. “I always used to feed Carol strained carrots. Sometimes I thought she’d never eat anything else for the rst of her life!” Annie laughs absently, but his gorgeous blues have already captured her attentions some time ago. “Where d’you want these?” Carol’s voice is more timid than it was, and Annie can’t pretend she doesn’t see the faint streak of tears down her cheek. Though her mother can. “I think Mike has gone to get the carrier out of the car, honey, maybe the box is better off in the back?” It’s a question to Annie rather than her daughter. “Oh, the box, sure. But, I can just put the clothes in the bag.” Her words are tentative, soft, an unspoken care for the tender looking girl who is trying to keep face. And as if on cue, Mike enters with the baby carrier. “I think these are for you” she tries to smile as she takes the baby clothes from the top of the box, handing the cardboard crate to her son’s new father. 

“It’s ok, I’ll do it.” And you couldn’t possibly take it as a criticism. Annie smiles at Carol’s hesitation over the bag and moves over to her in the hallway. There’s a moment, and when she speaks again her voice is a touch heavier than before. “Could you…?” Annie offers her gurgling son to his mother. Both of them caught in this strange space where they are neither mother nor not. A timeshare. But the boy wasn’t a villa in France, and Carol had already handed him over. But Annie knew that handing him over was not the same as saying goodbye. With the same care-free smiles they exchange the clothes and the baby, Annie taking too long to find the appropriate compartment. Over her shoulder she can see Carol holding him, better than before (she’s watched how Annie and Mike do it, she _could_ do it.) And for a moment his gurgles grow faint, and Annie can see her pale face enraptured by his beautiful eyes. She won’t intrude on their final moments. Fixing all her attentions on the zipped compartments of the bag, she stores the folded baby-grows one by one. The sweet peacefulness of the room soon begins to crack though, as his contended hush starts to seep into whines, and he ultimately cries. There’s no more time she can fuss with, no more clothes on the pile, and Annie is forced to rise from her knees to see the unexpected acceptance flattening Carol’s features. Her arms holding him away from her. “Sorry,” she mumbles, but Annie can’t wonders what it is exactly that she has to be sorry about, and for a moment fears the girl will burst into tears. But she doesn’t. Slowly she sets the babe down in his new carrier, sighing as she runs a hand through ragged hair and smiling weakly at her. Thankfully for all of them, before the tension can mount to a painful height, Mike comes beaming through the front door. “All set!”


	4. Chapter 4

He mumbles some obscenity under his breath as he drops back into the car. The sun gleams through the windscreen over the scrawled note he holds, he reads his own copied words once more before letting a disgruntled sigh fall into his lap, crumpling the paper in his fist.   
It was _definitely_ the right house, he was sure of that. _14 Winsford Drive, Hoschton, Jackson, GA._ It was right. But it still wasnt. He drove all the way out of state for _nothing_.  
A hand runs through the scruff of his dusty locks, pushing them back off of his face. It was warmer than he'd expected it to be. Florida was hot, but the young man had (somewhat naively) assumed that it might be a touch milder up north. In the last few days he'd realised his mistake; still wearing the same thin t-shirt he'd arrived in since he hadn't packed appropriately for the place. As he slams down the visor he tries not to let the thought of how pretty the street is distract him from his anger.

The radio stays off on the drive back toward the motel, his teeth grinding the only sound reverberating through his skull. His father has told him to watch his temper. But his mother always told him he was just _passionate_. He never knows who to believe. Hasn't for some time. Oh, they loved him, they loved him plenty. And he loved them plenty back. But like a single spot of blood in the snow, there was always something he could never ignore. Just sat there, benign as can be, but that provoked something malicious in him. Yes, he thought, it was malice. But it was for his own self, his own mind. The way he thought about it more than he should have: looking at himself in the mirror (even as a young boy) and pulling at the parts of his face, trying to see whether it was a lie or not. Sometimes it felt it. Trying to reason that his left eye came from his grandfather on his mothers side, his nose from his father, perhaps the dimple in his cheek from his mother's smile when she couldn't stop laughing. Anything. Anything that raised a hand to tell him _you are theirs._ But he wasn't. Soon it became impossible to ignore. Or at least, impossible to try. It broke his heart the day after his birthday when he sat them down and told them. But they were so... So _fine_. There's still some part of him that doesn't want them to be. Some small scratching part that gnaws at him when he glances at his phone thrown in the passenger seat that wants it to ring and for his father to be on the end of it telling him to cease this ridiculous endeavor. But of course, it doesn't. And it's left to scratch until it makes holes in his stomach.

A bitter laugh pushes past his teeth as he pulls up to the red light at the end of the street. The joke is never lost on him, but it seems to have lost his shine since he left the house he'd spent two years looking for. _Jackson, GA._ They told him it was part 'happy accident' and part because of how clear and blue the sky was the day they came and got him; how his eyes made them think of that clear Jackson sky. Jackson. He can imagine them, young and bright eyed, anxiously hovering in the hall of that house (probably decorated worse than it was now), his father's foot tapping nervously and his mother all honest smiles. He can't imagine himself though. Jackson has tried a hundred times but no image ever appears; just some vague blob of a white cloth that he assumes he was wrapped in. And he can't remember her either. When he asked his mother said she had reddish hair, that she was young. And later with a feverish smile that he had her eyes. He couldn't stop thinking about that for days after. That the eyes they adored, that reminded them of the gorgeous sky under which they brought him home, did not belong to either of them. He watched them in the mirror, imagined another persons face around them, a woman's. But still he can never see it.

That was the whole point of this. So that maybe he could put a face to a name. So that CAROL MARSHAL, 14 WINSFORD DRIVE, HOSCHTON, JACKSON, GA would stop being a name printed across his birth certificate, across the note now crumpled on the floor of his car, and might swirl into being. He'd made no plans. He'd barely thought it through. As the traffic light flicks green a vicious hand thumps against the steering wheel before the car behind prompts him to throw the car into gear. Over twenty years had passed; why did he think she would even still live there?! Consoling himself he pulls the car in on the side of the road. Her parents could've still been there though? The thought catches him: His _grandparents._ If they were still alive? They could've been dead for all he knew. She could've been married, had a whole other life after he was gone, one she didn't want him interfering with... His spoiled attempt to find her was being soured further. Maybe she would've cared for him, like his parents said. Maybe she wanted to know how he was, if he had a good life. Or maybe she just didn't want to know.

The car begins to stagnate with the ache of it, the air settling like thick dust. Drawing sharp breath a hand is thrust out to the glove compartment - he won't be beat, not yet, he isn't giving up. It's been almost a year since he started this, he isn't going to let himself be stopped by this 'bump in the road'. Pushing down the urge to burst into tears he yanks out the black folder, chapped at the edges, a little beaten about from his high school years and chemistry class (the old sticky label still stubbornly clinging to the front) and begins flinging back the wallets and pages. It's his little bible for this trip, everything he needed was in there: booking details for the motel, a list of emergency numbers (at the insistence of his mother), a map of Jackson (nope, that still sounded weird to him), and a photocopy of his birth certificate. He flips the folder round to study the black and white page, half mottled at one side where the printer tried to chew it up and he damn near had a heart attack. His dad fixed it though, he was good at fixing things. His finger traces over the plastic cover, over the inked words beneath, a pearl of hope revealing itself. It made sense that it was there, of course it did, but still the simple fact that it was dredged him out of the tar he was at risk of being stuck in, put him on dry land. Perhaps her parents had moved away, or possibly worse. But whatever way he looked at it the Stevens' family now at 14 Winsford Drive were of no use to him. Jackson quickly peeled back through the files to the map of his namesake, his eyes sharpening to crystal blue points, searing through the page, as he tracked his way. It wasn't far. A few miles or so south-west of this very corner. Snatching the map out of its wallet and stuffing it into the visor overhead, he has his next destination. His hands go to the wheel but a moment before he starts the car he stops; one last thing.

"...Hi! Mom? Yeah, it's me... Yeah, but, uh - Well, no. I mean there _were_ people there but, it wasn't them. Wasn't her, or her family, they've -I dunno they've moved or something. But, hey, I, um - ... It was, a little, I guess... But, mom, I'm - No... No, i'm - I'm still staying up here. That's what I wanted to tell you: I think I've found something else... Yeah. It's not, like, _news_ or anything I just - It's not something I thought of before, y'know? Yeah. No, it's - It's the hospital. The one on the birth certificate? Yeah... Yeah I have the map out and everything, it's not too far, couple a'hours? ...I just thought, y'know, they might have her records or something. If she changed her name or got married or... Anything, really... They might be able to help... Uh, yeah, it's Grady. Grady Memorial Hospital. Yeah... Thanks, mom. Me too... No I've been in the car all day... No there's no TV's in the motel, kinda shit - _sorry_... Well, I'll try and see if i can get anything on the radio... _Of course_ I will. You just look after yourselves. I'll be fine... I'll call you when I get there... Thanks, mom... I love you."


End file.
